


Spoil the meat

by Mary_from_Maryland



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Deer butchering, Dinner, First Time, Hunting, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_from_Maryland/pseuds/Mary_from_Maryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The secret lies in softening the meat shortly after the carcass is butchered,” he explains. “Many hunters prefer to age their meat by hanging it for a few days in order to mitigate its wild taste, but that is unnecessary if you know how to interpret the taste. How to indulge to it, but only to a certain extent.”</p><p>“Do you do it often? Doing your own hunting, butchering and cooking?”</p><p>Hannibal pauses halfway through a sip of wine, then nods. “Quite often.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoil the meat

“How exactly did you manage to talk me into this?”

Half-macerated leaves crackle beneath Alana’s feet as she trudges through the underbrush, her lips thin.

Hannibal doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn around. Will averts his eyes from the shiny barrel bouncing rhythmically against Hannibal’s back to glance sideways at Alana, who merely lifts up the collar of her sweater and keeps her gaze to the ground. Will goes back to the rifle.

After a while, Hannibal raises a hand, kneels down, silently gestures them to do the same. White puffs of smoke are coming out of his mouth; Will blinks hard and complies. The damp soil leaves cold patches on his knees, chilling him through the fabric of his jeans.

Insert the cartridge, set the gun sight, aim the rifle. Will follows the bead and sees it, a small brownish doe, some sixty yards away, her slender neck flexed to nibble on some shrub leaves, her ears pricked up. His sight blurs out for a moment; a shot rings out, then another. She’s dead.

Will and Alana wait behind as Hannibal drags the carcass to a small clearing nearby for field dressing. He comes back half an hour later with a large bundle of tarp and rope hoisted over his shoulder and the tiniest hint of a smile around his eyes. Will glances at his hands, which are, of course, immaculate.

 “What are you going to do with it?” Alana asks, a little breathlessly, after they’ve walked back to the pick-up and relieved themselves of the burden.

“I was hoping you might help me butcher it,” Hannibal says. “It is quite a toilsome task, and it has to be carried out quickly, or else the meat will spoil.”

 “Thanks, but no thanks,” she smirks. “I think I’ve gotten a general idea of the – experience.” _I only came along in case Will freaked out in the middle of your therapeutic experiment_ , reads the subtext. Will doesn’t really mind.

Hannibal smiles and nods, acknowledging defeat. “As you wish. Will? Can I count on you?”

Alana glares at Hannibal; Hannibal looks at Will. “Sure,” Will says, and follows him.

#

Hannibal’s basement is neither too small nor too cold. They take the carcass out of the icebox in the trunk and put it on a dark wooden table at the end of the room. It’s disconcertingly soft. The stark neon light above it reminds Will of the morgue, rows of corpses ready to be dissected, missing organs, disjointed limbs. Possibly this occurs to Hannibal, because he taps a switch on the wall beside the door after coming back from the storage closet, and the light gets much warmer. Hannibal is by Will’s side now, and Will listens to the faint _click_ of the metal latches as the man lifts the lid of a shiny black case, already knowing what’s in there.

“Very well,” Hannibal says, picking up the first knife. “Let’s get to work.”

They hang the doe with her head up, saw her legs off and skin her. Will passes knife after knife to Hannibal as he rapidly and methodically quarters the body. Scraps of blue connective tissue pile up in a bucket next to Hannibal’s knees, but his rubber gloves get only slightly pink. Will guesses most of the bleeding took place in the forest. The air smells like iron and Hannibal’s cologne. Will breathes deeply, in and out.

“We’re done,” Hannibal says after the doe’s head has joined most of her bones in a garbage bag. “Thank you for assisting me. You were really helpful.”

“Sure,” Will mutters, realizing only now that his hands are shaking. Hannibal smiles.

“I hope you will come for dinner.”

#

“Good evening, Will. Please, come in.”

Will hunches his shoulders instinctively upon entering the hallway and hands Hannibal a bottle of Barolo without making eye contact.

“It was buried in my cellar,” he says, suddenly sheepish.

“Thank you. This will be excellent with venison,” Hannibal says with a courteous smile. “Come in.”

The table is set for two. Hannibal has him sit down, disappears into the kitchen, comes back a moment later with multiple plates balanced on his arms. He places one of them in front of Will with practiced gracefulness and introduces, “Venison carpaccio with horseradish and chive.” He uncorks Will’s bottle and pours the wine. Violins and clarinets start to spread their delicate chords in the room, and Will can’t help but smile – because dinner at Hannibal's place is exactly as he’d imagined it, and because Hannibal has unconsciously chosen one of the few pieces of classical music he can actually recognize – Händel’s Water Music.

“This is delicious,” he says for the third time in three courses, raising his eyes from a steaming bowl of _civet de chevreuil aux artichauts_. Barolo and the prospect of dessert allow him to look his host in the eyes. Hannibal looks satisfied.

“The secret lies in softening the meat shortly after the carcass is butchered,” he explains. “Many hunters prefer to age the meat by hanging it for a few days in order to mitigate its wild taste, but that is unnecessary if you know how to _interpret_ the taste. How to indulge to it, but only to a certain extent.”

“Do you do it often? Doing your own hunting, butchering and cooking?”

Hannibal pauses halfway through a sip of wine, then nods. “Quite often.”

“It must be gratifying,” Will says. Hannibal raises his eyes, wipes his mouth, stands up.

“Follow me, please,” he says quietly. Will complies, perplexed; he leaves the stew on the table and follows Hannibal through two or three nondescript, delicately-lighted, exquisitely-furnished rooms, thinking vaguely about the neural connections between curiosity and fear – and then Hannibal is pinning him to the wall and kissing him, hard and seizing, and Will isn’t  thinking anymore.

They stop for breath after a while, panting. Will’s back is pressed against the wall, his lips are burning. He feels Hannibal’s erection through his pants and realizes he’s getting pretty hard himself. He still isn’t thinking properly. Hannibal bites his upper lip and kisses him again, more tenderly now, drinking his sadness, limning his sadness.

“What gave me away?” Will manages to ask, only half-teasingly, after they break off. Hannibal smiles and laughs a breathless, impossibly endearing laugh.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and Will is his. 


End file.
